


A Soul Without Frontiers

by skitzofreak



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spanish Civil War, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, F/M, Historical References, Humor, Poetry, Spy Stuff, Tumblr Prompt, Violence, War Photographers, rated for themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 23:45:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitzofreak/pseuds/skitzofreak
Summary: The camera is warm and steady as a heartbeat in Cassian’s hands as the man falls,and death will be but a pause, he thinks but does not have the breath to say.A World War II/Rogue One fusion inspired by two real world photographers, who stared unflinching at the face of war.





	A Soul Without Frontiers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csectumsempra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csectumsempra/gifts).



> For csectumsempra / @cassianserso, who wanted an AU based on the lives of [Robert Capa](https://www.icp.org/browse/archive/constituents/robert-capa?all/all/all/all/0) and [Gerda Taro](https://www.icp.org/browse/archive/constituents/gerda-taro?all/all/all/all/0), some fascinating people who took some of the most famous photos of the war. I decided to go more with "inspired by" rather than "based on," partially because their story does not end particularly happily, and also because, even with several days of research now behind me, I'm still only barely scratching the surface of what I'd need to really write this with any real accuracy. This was, _once again_ , meant to be a one shot. 
> 
> It is not. Oh well.

_But when I shook hands to leave, an Anarchist worker_  
_Said: 'Tell the workers of England_  
_This was a war not of our own making_  
_We did not seek it._  
_But if ever the Fascists again rule Barcelona_  
_It will be as a heap of ruins with us workers beneath it.'_

_\- A Letter From Aragon, R. John Cornford_

 

This is how Cassian Andor meets Jyn Erso: she wraps her arms around his waist, drives her shoulder into his chest and slams him backwards into the dubious safety of the trench. Distantly he hears  _Sargento_ Melshi shouting, drowned out by the roar of machine gun fire shattering the air where Cassian's body had only just been. He smells gunpowder and blood and the rank scent of unwashed wool uniforms, and his vision is clouded with the haze of dust kicked up by the trucks and churning boots of the soldiers. His head is flung back by the force of the tackle, and he is looking at the clear winter sky

_his feet leave the ground, she turns her face against his neck, and for one sudden, frozen moment he is suspended in midair with nothing but the warm weight of the strange woman against his body and the sound of her soft gasp in his ear_

until he slams painfully into the dirt in the trench, the woman’s weight crashing on top of him and knocking all the air from his lungs. Cassian’s teeth crack together, sending a spike of pain through his jaw and head, and he chokes as his lungs strain to suck in air. Vaguely, he recognizes that the woman has rolled sluggishly to his side, but she’s oddly close yet – and it takes him several seconds of gasping to realize that her arm is pinned under his head, where apparently she had tried to cushion his skull with it.

 _“¿Estás vivo, camarógrafo?”_ The _sargento_ grips Cassian’s jacket and yanks hard, dragging him to the side of the trench and propping him up. The movement pulls him away from the woman, and Cassian struggles to turn his head and see her.

“’m alright,” she growls in a muffled but obvious British accent, only just audible over the endless howling of machine gun fire. “Get off, I’m _alright_.” She shoves angrily at the Loyalist soldiers trying to pull her up by her arm, and rolls to her knees, keeping her head low. She has dark hair cut unfashionably short, the ends curling around her chin and flying into her fierce green eyes. She’s also wearing what looks like cut-down men’s clothes with heavy boots, and there is a camera slung across her chest and bouncing on her hip. The sight of it sparks a momentary panic in Cassian, and he scrambles to check his camera harness. It’s still there, his camera and his rolls of spare film and even his small cleaning kit – he slumps slightly against the rough dirt and breathes out in relief.

The relief is short lived, however, as another round of heavy gunfire rips the air overhead and the handful of soldiers still alive shout and reload and try to find gaps in the relentless assault to fire back. “ _Querías ver la guerra,”_ Melshi bellows at Cassian, mouth twisting into a grim smile as he pulls at the collar of his grimy shirt. _“¡Aquí lo tienes!”_

In the back of Cassian’s memory a gentle voice murmurs _the life that I have is all that I have_ , and then he shakes his head to clear it because now is not the time for _that_.  His ears are ringing and his chest still aches from the weight of – the woman! He snaps his head up but she’s no longer kneeling a few meters away. Instead, she’s just within arm's reach to his left, crouching by the wall of the trench and frowning at her own camera, eyes wide with fear.

Or at least, he thinks it’s fear, until she notices him looking and turns to meet his gaze. The full weight of her stare hits him all at once, and he realizes that it’s not fear at all that widens her eyes or grits her teeth – it is pure rage, flaring up so bright and tangible he almost flinches back from the heat. In her hands, the camera lens is cracked.

 _“¡Entrante!”_ A Loyalist screams suddenly from further down the trench, and the machine gun fire cuts out but the much more immediate sound of rifle fire takes its place, and with a chill Cassian realizes it’s moving closer. The pounding of his heart fractures into the sound of multiple boots pounding through the wreckage of Madrid. A group of Nationalists are rushing the trench, and Melshi bellows a curse as he swings his rifle over the top and fires. Cassian reaches for his own belt, but his pistol is long since empty; he has nothing except his camera to shoot. The Loyalists are likewise almost out of ammunition, and though the rifle fire and the charging boots slows, by the time the men in the trench have nothing left to shoot, there are still bullets flying over their heads.

Melshi grimaces, looks down at his rifle then back at Cassian. “ _Así que hoy es el día_ ,” he shakes his head. “ _Dios nos perdone_.”

 _A sleep I shall have_ , Cassian thinks, swallowing, then an almost desperate _not yet, I’m not done yet -_

Beside him, the woman looks up from examining her own damaged lens and tilts her head, listening to the incoming attack. “Bloody fascist _bastards_ ,” she snarls, jamming the camera back into the swinging case at her hip. And then, to his shock, she reaches into her loose-hanging coat and yanks out a pistol. The movement pulls her jacket back and reveals a second pistol tucked into the waistband of her trousers. The woman cocks the one in her hands with a practiced move, her eyes glittering and her face dangerous.

“No, wait!” Cassian rushes to grab her as she explodes to her feet and aims over the edge of the trench, but it’s too late. By the time he awkwardly scrambles across the short distance, hunched over to keep his head below the line of fire, she’s already fired off four shots in quick succession. He hears one, two, possibly three distinct _thuds_ , and from the corner of his eye sees a Nationalist soldier draw his arm back, something small and dark in his hand. There’s no time to think about it, Cassian slips his hand under the woman’s jacket and grabs the pistol from her waistband. He swings it up in one smooth motion and fires, catching the soldier in the center of his chest. The man is close enough that Cassian can see his mouth drop open and his eyes widen and he jerks, dropping to the ground with the grenade still in his hand. The woman turns and for the second time today she throws herself on top of Cassian, knocking him back down into the trench as the explosion shatters the world nearby and throws another shower of dirt and gravel down on them.   

This time, she rolls away immediately, and Cassian forces himself back up almost as quickly. The woman looks at the pistol in his hand, then at him, and when he slowly offers it back to her, she shakes her head and turns away. Just beyond her, Melshi is staring at them both with wide, startled eyes, swearing a storm in Spanish and crossing himself.

The dirt along the edge of the trench just above them explodes under the sudden hail of machine gun bullets; the charge having failed, the Nationalists are back to the heavy fire. Instinctively, Cassian drops the pistol and reaches out. He grabs her shoulders, hauling her a little closer to try and cover her head with his arms. After a small, horrifying eternity, the rain of dirt and screaming gunfire cease, and Cassian feels her lifting her head. He needs a moment more to breathe, however, and keeps his head down and eyes closed until he feels her lean forward and speak directly into his ear. Her voice is low, urgent, her breath caresses against his skin as she asks, “Does your camera still work?”

He laughs. Crouching in the dirt with gunfire and death all around, his face pressed to a stranger’s thin shoulder and the enemy closing in, Cassian laughs.

“Yes,” he manages, and is unsurprised to feel the woman’s hands slip down to his camera case and flick open the latches. Overhead, the machine gun fire cuts off again, and the distant rumbling of trucks replaces it.

Cassian lifts his head at last to see Melshi’s face creased with worry. Speaking rapidly, the  _sargento_ gestures to the sound of trucks and then starts ordering the few remaining soldiers in the trench to prepare to…run for it, it sounds like. The Nationalists are merely relocating, Cassian gathers, although most of his attention is on the woman’s hands, pulling out his camera and turning it over, examining it. After a second, she shoves it into his hands. The metal on the body of the device is almost hot against the skin of his fingers, and for a delirious moment he wonders if it is the fierce sun that warmed it, or her touch.

“Mine is broken,” she says angrily, sounding more offended than anything. “So here. You have to do it.” She wraps her hands around his on the camera and pushes it firmly against his chest, against his heartbeat.

“You want me to take them for you?” Cassian doesn’t mean to sound quite so incredulous as he does, but this whole day has already dissolved into much more than he was anticipating when he joined Melshi’s scouting party through what was meant to be an abandoned part of the city, looking for survivors of the most recent assault.

“No,” she snaps, her fingers tight around his hands; he can feel the faint flutter of a second heartbeat in his skin, mostly likely hers, but strangely it feels like it’s coming from the camera itself. “Not for _me_. For the people out there,” she gestures vaguely at the horizon, then reaches down and picks up her pistol from the ground. “They have to know what’s happening. What’s going to happen again if someone doesn’t _care_.”

“ _Debemos irnos_ ,” Melshi shouts at them before Cassian can process the strange lightness her words birth in his chest, and the woman glances at the _sargento_ coolly, then shrugs and starts to push herself to her feet. Melshi shouts again, pointing up and over, explaining again that the Nationalists are moving in and they have to go, right now. But the woman glares at him and then simply shrugs a second time. Cassian stares at her in astonishment as he realizes the problem; she’s come here, to a _war zone_ in _Spain_ , and she doesn’t speak Spanish?

“He says we are about to be overrun,” he shouts over the noise, shuffling closer on his knees. The woman flicks a glance at him, but she seems more interested in emptying the bullets from her second pistol and reloading them into the other, giving her one fully loaded weapon and one empty weapon. “ _Los Nacionalistas_ ,” Cassian tries again, reaching out as if to grab her shoulder, but she jerks out from under his grip and levels him with a dangerous stare. He raises his hands, one empty and the other still clutching the camera, but he doesn’t back away. “They will reposition, and then maybe start shelling. We have to go,” he says as clearly and firmly as he can over the noise.

The woman’s jaw clenches, but she’s sensible enough to nod and slip the empty pistol back into her waistband, holding the loaded one with confidence and gesturing for him to lead. He in turn glances up at Melshi, who takes a deep breath. Around them, the remaining soldiers cross themselves, murmur prayers, and prepare to run. The woman stands quietly at Cassian’s side, pistol held at the ready, tension coiled in her muscles and resolve burning in her eyes. Cassian raises his camera; it is still warm in his hands, trembling like a live thing as he breathes in and breathes out, waiting.

In a slightly sing-song voice, Melshi speaks suddenly in heavily accented English. “ _Over the top, lads_.” And then he leaps up over the edge of the trench and bolts forward, the rest of the squad close on his heels.

Gunfire erupts from their right, and Cassian slams the camera button down as he runs, operating mostly on instinct. The woman half turns and fires along the enemy gunfire’s line, as does another soldier further down the charge. Ahead of them, Melshi turns his head back to check on them. Cassian raises the camera and

 _Melshi jerks, folding in on himself, and the camera is warm and steady as a heartbeat in Cassian’s hands as the man falls,_ and death will be but a pause _, he thinks but does not have the breath to say and_

they do not stop, cannot stop. The woman fires one last shot as she streaks by Melshi’s still body. She leans down as she passes and Cassian sees her tear something from the soldier’s shirt, but a bullet – _sharp and burning and singing his death_ \- slices across his left ear and Cassian can’t hold back the shout that tears from him. Hot, wet blood splatters against his neck and drips down his collar, and a roaring silence presses in on his left side. The pain makes him stumble, he has a panicked moment to think _I’ve been shot!_ But then the woman is beside him again, tugging on his arm, pulling him, and all he can do is stagger where she leads. Around them, shouting men rush forward, the gunfire fading back as they turn a corner and see the shape of their salvation.

It’s a truck, old and battered and barely big enough to hold the seven soldiers and two civilians remaining in their squad. Two soldiers throw themselves into the cab, and the other five push and scramble into the back, turning to grab at the woman and Cassian and haul them in as well. The camera is somehow still in his hands as rough hands grip his shirt and yank him inside, and _they have to know what’s happening_ sohe presses down on the button again, then again, catching the ruined buildings that streak by, the wasteland of a city torn apart by a war that may yet spread further than anyone is willing to admit.

Anyone except for the few who have been watching it unfold for years, waiting.

 _The situation in Spain is worsening_ , the woman in white says quietly, and her eyes are full of sorrow but her face is resolute. _It will be war soon, and we must prepare._ _Do you remember your code, Captain?_

 _The life that I have is all that I have_ , he murmurs back, the pistol cold in his belt and the camera warm in his hands, _and the life that I have is yours_.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, friend,” she replies flatly, and Cassian blinks. The woman in white blurs, the sorrow in her eyes burning away into green fire, and he is in a truck bouncing across uneven ground, the gunfire falling further away as the Loyalists drive like mad for their nearest safe haven. He is slumped against the side of the truck, with a young man in uniform shaking against his left side as he mutters terrified prayers. The fierce woman in grubby men’s clothes is huddled against his right. She’s leaning awkwardly against him as she reaches around to press some kind of cloth to the left side of his head.

Ah, yes. He’s been shot. In the head? No, he reaches up to check and the woman bats his hand down impatiently. “Don’t muck about with that,” she snaps. “Just hold still.” In the ear, he thinks. Shot in the ear. That’s probably fine. Fucking painful, but fine. He can survive it. As if she can read his thoughts, the woman reaches up her free hand and cups his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “It’s not bad. You’ll live,” she says in an uncompromising tone.

She’s too close, he thinks vaguely, her hands framing his face and her body swaying with the motion of the truck over his lap. He does not like people this close, does not like the feeling of someone leaning over him and pinning him down, especially not when he knows they are armed.

And yet, as this complete stranger frames his face with her hands and fills his vision with her sharp eyes, her stubborn jaw, her grimy body, he finds himself relaxing instead of tensing. The camera is still in his hand, but it’s gone cold and heavy, a dull bit of metal and plastic with only a soft whisper of the potential inside it. His other hand, he realizes with mild surprise, is gripping the woman’s jacket tightly, steadying her against the jolting of the truck. Behind her, the shattered streets of Madrid begin to give way to the countryside, and the gunfire is fading into birdsong and the growl of the truck as it crunches over the cracked road.

“Thank you,” he says abruptly, if a little thickly. “Out there, you - ” _came out of nowhere, saved my life, probably twice, reminded me why I was there, saved the message you have no idea I’m carrying_ “ – I am in your debt,” he tells her softly, the words slipping between the silence in his left ear and the echoes of war in his right.

“If you got any good shots out of that,” she jerks her head toward the camera in his hand. “Then we’re even, alright?” She tries to sit back a bit, her hands sliding away, but there’s no room in this crowded little truck, and she has to rise back onto her knees to avoid sitting on another soldier’s boots. She frowns, wiggles slightly trying to reposition, but there’s nowhere to go. She’s still trying to keep the cloth against his injured ear, and the movement rubs against the torn cartilage painfully. Cassian grunts and decides that propriety be damned, she has to sit somewhere and he needs her help to keep himself from bleeding all over the place. So he tugs with the hand that is still fisted tightly in her jacket, and she throws him a hard look but lets him guide her down until she’s sitting, more or less, on his lap, sideways between his bent knees with her legs thrown over his thigh and her arm wrapped around his neck, pressing the cloth to his head. He props the camera in her lap, careful to keep his hands in sight and nowhere near anything…indecent. He glances around the truck but none of the soldiers so much as bat an eye at them, either curled in on themselves like the young man to his left or watching outwards, rifles raised and eyes wide with paranoia. The woman doesn’t look around at all, and he’s not surprised; a woman who would run about a war zone completely unescorted while dressed in men’s clothes would hardly be much concerned with such a petty thing as _reputation_.

The woman shifts a little and pulls the cloth to check his ear, then frowns and presses it back gently. “Still bleeding,” she tells him matter of factly, “but looks like it only took a small piece of you. Cover it with your hair, one would hardly notice.”

He starts to nod, reconsiders when a quick stab of pain shoots through the left side of his head, and instead says quietly, “Cassian.”

She blinks, and now she does glance quickly around the truck, checking to see if anyone is watching. She’s been shot at and chased and forced into a dirty trench with a squad of unfamiliar men, but this is the first time he’s seen her look even slightly uncomfortable. He’s trapped her in a corner, he realizes, or rather, trapped her in his lap with nowhere to escape. “It’s alright,” he says quickly, keeping his voice low but forcing himself not to bend his head closer. He doesn’t want to crowd her. “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything.” He glances over her head at the dwindling buildings. “We’re an hour from the Loyalist camp,” he calculates. “There will be cars there, ways to get out, if you want.” He licks his dry lips, considers his next words carefully. “I have a place, a little ways outside the camp. There’s a darkroom to check your film, and somewhere to…get cleaned up. If you like.” He keeps his eyes outside the truck, watching the hills riding gently up from the rubble as the truck at last makes it out of the city. They are not yet safe, he knows, especially if the Nationalists move their forces around to the north of the city, but so far that has not happened, so far they are in the clear.

“Jyn,” she whispers, and he allows himself a quick glance at her face. She’s watching him carefully, all coiled tension and focused intent again, though there is no gun in her hand this time, no enemy to charge.

“Jyn,” he repeats softly.

This is how Cassian Andor meets Jyn Erso: he wraps his arms around her waist, pulls her shoulder flush against his chest, and steadies her against the painful jolting of the truck that carries them to safety.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my Spanish is rusty and I welcome any suggestions/corrections:  
> "¿Estás vivo, camarógrafo?” / "Are you alive, cameraman?"  
> "Querías ver la guerra. ¡Aquí lo tienes!” / "You wanted to see the war. Here it is!"  
> "¡Entrante!” / "Incoming!"  
> “Así que hoy es el día.” / "So today is the day."  
> “Dios nos perdone.” / "God forgive us."  
> "Debemos irnos" / "We must go"
> 
> If you're interested in some general info on the Spanish Civil War, who the Loyalists were versus the Nationalists (the elected government funded by the USSR versus the fascist uprising backed by Italy and Germany), or other interesting bits: [here](http://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/spanish-civil-war-breaks-out) and [here](http://staff.esuhsd.org/balochie/studentprojects/spanishcivilwar/index.html) are some, short summaries and links to further reading.
> 
> The title of the story comes from [a poem by Miguel Hernandez](https://allpoetry.com/To-the-International-Soldier-Fallen-in-Spain), a famous poet who fought for the Loyalists and was sentenced to death by the dictator Franco. The poem at the beginning is from ["A Letter from Aragon," by John Cornford](http://www.culturematters.org.uk/index.php/arts/poetry/item/2404-poets-exploding-like-bombs-poems-from-the-spanish-civil-war), died December 1936, in Lopera, Spain, the first Englishman to enlist in the International Brigade against the Nationalist uprising.
> 
> Melshi says "Over the top, lads," in English, because in this story he snuck out of Spain to fight in World War I with the Brits [in the trenches](https://www.thoughtco.com/going-over-the-top-2361017), and though his English is still pretty rough, some things stuck with him. 
> 
> Also, I will explain that whole "my life is all the life I have" thing that Cassian keeps thinking/muttering in a mild delirium. And the woman in white. Later.


End file.
